The Dark Lord

by Thomas Harlan

  "The palace of the governor of Egypt," Galen said, leaning back himself. The wall was blessedly cool against his back. "I believe the Persian commander has taken up residence there. We're peering in the windows to see if we can spy out what they intend to do next."

  The prince laughed, an honest sound, filled with weary mirth. "Momma would whip your behind with a strap for such rude behavior, if she were alive to catch you."

  "She would." Galen snorted. "How are you?"

  Maxian grunted, raising a hand and making a dismissive motion. "I live. The work in Florentia is complete. Only interior fittings remain—chairs, windows, floors. There are three-dozen men eager to try their hand at flight." He opened his eyes, fixing Galen with a fierce stare. "We are almost ready."

  "Good." The Emperor looked away, unable to meet the accusation in his brother's smudged brown eyes. "Good. The fleet is ready, Lord Alexandros is ready... there are other Legions coming, but I've not heard—yet—when they will reach Rome."

  "Do we know which way the enemy will move?" Maxian rubbed a fine-boned hand across his face and the stubbled, patchy beard vanished. He smoothed back his hair and the grease and oil faded. Exhaustion dropped away, leaving him bright-eyed and alert. "What have you found?"

  Galen watched his brother with open disgust as the younger man stepped lightly to the telecast. The prince did not bother to mutter or make an arcane sign—the disks and gears shuddered, blazing with hissing flame as the device sprang to life. "Show me the Bruchion," Maxian commanded, "and what we looked upon before."

  The Emperor suppressed a start of surprise—the difference in clarity and acuity between Maxian's command of the device and the Legion thaumaturges was no less than night and day—staring into the distant room at a shallow angle. The Queen now sat in a swan-backed chair, legs curled under her, brilliant blue eyes sparkling as she watched a handful of men argue over a map.

  "Sicilia!" Galen blurted, coming to his brother's side.

  "Yes," Maxian agreed, shifting his hands. The telecast focused, showing a crumbling papyrus sheet marked with brown ink. The outline of the great island was plain to see, and a heavy, thick finger stabbed at icons of towns and villages sprinkled along the eastern coastline. "What are they looking at?"

  "The bay of Catania," Galen growled, his grim face fluttering with broken sunlight streaming through from the Egyptian room. "They are arguing about landing their fleet at Syracuse—there to the south, where the island turns in a jagged horn—or at Catania, where the bay is broad and wide, and there are long, shallow beaches."

  "Why there?" Maxian turned, frowning. "Won't they need a harbor to unload their ships?"

  Galen shrugged. "Syracuse is strongly fortified, the harbors closed by a causeway and chain. Look!"

  The finger jabbed at an inlet beneath the sketched sign of a great mountain, then moved inland and south, crossing into the mountains above the representation of Syracuse. A fist thumped on the table as a young, hawk-faced man in oddly-cut robes made a violent gesture. Galen watched their faces, lips pursed, frowning in concentration. Maxian, in turn, watched his brother in amusement.

  "The young one thinks they should land close to the city," the Emperor said after a moment. "The others—the veterans—disagree. They think no one will resist the landing so far away, letting them unload in peace." Galen rubbed his chin. "Rash youth will be—ah!"

  The man owning the thick fingers moved into the scene, a fierce beard curling from a jutting chin, deep-set eyes flashing as he spoke. The Emperor watched him greedily, drinking in details of his garments—a simple tunic over a mail shirt, with the hilts of a heavy sword and mace riding on his hip—and the movement of his lips.

  "The King of Kings," Galen breathed, flashing his brother a wan smile. "Shahr-Baraz the Boar, greatest of the Persian generals. Not our most formidable enemy, but close, very close. Even without the sorcerer's help, he would test us fiercely." The Emperor pointed at the young, dark-complected man. "This must be the commander of the Arab mercenaries—he seems very reckless—the shahanshah will overrule his suggestion to land directly at Syracuse."

  A moment later, the King of Kings shook his head, curls bouncing, and made a firm, final indication on the map.

  "Catania, then," Maxian said slowly, thinking, his eyes comparing the ground shown on the map to a trove of memories from time spent at his sister-in-law's estate. "Under Aetna. Is their fleet ready to sail?" The prince's eyelid twitched and the scene dimmed, the view springing back over the rooftops of a city, which dwindled until only the blue-green orb of the earth swam in the fiery circle. A long wing of white cloud covered most of the Middle Sea.

  "Soon enough," Galen said, biting his thumb. "We've been watching them work. It's odd, they've torn out all the rowing benches in their galleys to clear space. Every galley stepping a sail is being refitted and the civilian merchantmen are being stripped down. No comfortable journey for those men, by Poseidon! I'd say they can put ten thousand men ashore with the usual complement of supplies and gear." He flashed a grim smile. "Barring storms."

  Maxian considered his brother, then said, "what if they brought nothing? No supplies, no horses, no tents, nothing but soldiers packed tight as cordwood?"

  The Emperor made a disgusted face. "By the gods, Max, it's a full week's sail from Alexandria to Syracuse—half those men would be dead from heat and..." Galen's voice trailed off.

  "Corpses packed below decks," Maxian said, a forbidding expression darkening his face, "do not feel the heat or cry out for water or even foul themselves in rough seas. Corpses can be efficiently stacked, laid one upon another in honeycombed rows and now they have so many fresh bodies to use..." A glint of something like hatred flared in the prince's eyes and the Emperor felt his flesh crawl, feeling the brunt of his brother's fury.

  "Ah—that is foul." Galen grimaced. "But you're right again—and this means a good forty thousand dead men will swarm from those ships." He turned pale. "And every graveyard and tomb they pass...

  "Will be filled with fresh recruits!" Maxian looked closely at his brother, as if for the first time. "You've been too long without sleep, Gales. You look terrible."

  "Thanks—" The Emperor hissed in surprise as the prince caught his hand, pressing flat-tipped fingers against the inside of the Imperial wrist. A soft green light glowed, shining through flesh and blood and bone. "Yiiii!"

  "Better?" Maxian's eyes crinkled up in amusement, though the dark core of each pupil seemed cold and remote. Galen shook himself, feeling a tingling rush from the bottoms of his feet to the crown of his head. The grainy, deep-set weariness he had been struggling through was gone. Even the room seemed brighter and the Emperor stared around in surprise. Details on the further walls were clear and sharp and he could pick out birds chirping in the trees outside the windows.

  "Ay, my sight's been failing!" Galen rubbed his eyes, then looked again in wonder. "Well, bless me." He smiled at his brother, making a little bow. "Thank you."

  "Huh." Maxian seemed embarrassed by the gratitude. "I wondered why your mind's become so slow of late." The prince shrugged. "I should have realized sooner."

  "Better late..." Galen started to say, but stopped, thinking of Aurelian. "What do we do about Sicilia? Our fleet is at Dyrrachium, loading the comes Alexandros' Goths—but there are only thirty thousand of them and not prepared to fight the dead. Will the flying machines make enough of a difference?"

  "Perhaps." Maxian's instant of good humor vanished and Galen could tell thoughts of Aurelian tormented him as well. Grief shadowed the prince's face, making him seem much older. "If we can catch their fleet at sea we will have a good chance. But I cannot guarantee anything—not against this foe."

  "We must stack the odds, then," Galen said. "Our only advantage is knowing where they will come ashore. I will put every man in arms on the road to Sicilia. The fleet can ferry them across the strait at Messina. If the gods smile and old soldiers answer their Emperor's call, we can meet them with forty thousand
legionaries."

  Maxian started, then gave his brother a queer, measuring look. "I am going south tomorrow," he said abruptly. "A thought occurs to me and will take time to play out." He put his hand on Galen's shoulder, then wrapped his brother in a tight hug. "I hope to see you again."

  "You too, piglet," Galen said, fighting to keep his eyes dry. "What do you intend?"

  The prince ducked his head, avoiding the Emperor's searching gaze. "Nothing you would approve of," Maxian mumbled, walking quickly to the door. "But these things must be done, for victory."

  "What did you say?" Galen reached the door only a step behind, but Maxian was already gone. The Emperor frowned, looking back at the disk. The green earth turned slowly in the shimmering orb of light. The sight made Galen raise an eyebrow in surprise. He had never seen the device operate by itself before. "Well, well... show me the bay of Catania."

  —|—

  Gaius Julius leaned against the wall of a small caupona at the foot of the Caelian hill, seamed old face plastered with a pleasant expression, a cup of wine in his hand. Like most of the other men crowded into the dim, smelly room he was clad in a tunic and long stonemason's apron. Everyone was glad to be out of the sun and done with another day's work on the restoration of the temple of the Divine Claudians. The old Roman was watching the door and narrow steps leading down from the street out of the corner of his eye.

  While he waited, Gaius paged through a set of crumbling parchment sheets. He had not pillaged the Senatorial records in a long time—not since he'd been writing Praises of Hercules as a boy seeking to link the god's lineage to his own. The smell of decaying paper brought back fond memories and the sight of so many books had filled him with familiar avarice. These old rags, though, they held only part of what he had been seeking.

  When he had walked the earth as a breathing man, the Clodians gens had been only one of a dozen rivals. The braggart Clodius Pulcher had employed gangs of thugs to terrorize the Senate, had cast aside his noble birth to be elected as a plebian, had used his delectable sister Clodia as a bribe to sway the senators and been a political opponent in every sense of the word. From this stock sprang our gray-eyed Diana? A wonder, if true. They seemed near collapse even in my day.

  Gaius shook his head, running a well-trimmed nail down page after page of lineages, births, deaths, all matter of scandal, despair, joy and tumult disguised by dryly worded fact. At length, he found the family dwindled almost to nothing, only possessing a single estate in southern Latium, and then—twenty years past—nothing. No children, no legal records. A dying clan guttering out at last.

  "Hmm." Gaius rubbed his nose. "Is she the last of a disgraced, bankrupt house?" He wondered who would know her antecedents—the Duchess, of course, but I cannot ask her!—and began to trace the linages backwards, through the contorted branches and leaves of a sprawling, often-intermarried family. He sighed, wondering how long he would have to wait in this hot, close place.

  —|—

  Evening advanced and an elderly man entered, a heavy basket of scrolls tucked under one arm. He pushed through the workmen, exchanging greetings with a few, to stand at the bar beside Gaius. The old Roman put away his papers. The woman behind the slab-shaped counter lifted her head in question.

  "Pickle, fish sauce and nut custard, please." Nilos' voice was marked by a distinct "Palace" accent and tinged with exhaustion. Gaius felt a twinge of sympathy—the basket of scrolls was not for show, but the man's uncompleted work from the day, being taken home to be copied or reviewed by lamplight.

  The woman nodded, spooning a gooey confection of pepper, cracked nuts, honey, rue and raisin wine in egg white into a hand-sized cup from a bowl built into the countertop. One of her assistants scurried off to draw pickles from a huge vat in the back of the shop and pluck a jar of Hispanian fish sauce from one of the shelves.

  "What news from our father's house?" Gaius made the statement to the empty air, though his voice was low and barely audible among the bustle and chatter in the common room. The workmen saw each other every day and most lived within a block of each other, yet there was never any lack of conversation or dispute.

  Nilos did not look at him, but gratefully accepted the bundle of custard and pickles wrapped in cheesecloth from the proprietress.

  "Thirteen," she said, wiping her hands on a dirty gray rag. The secretary counted out a handful of copper coins and left them on the countertop. He nodded to Gaius in a friendly way as he turned, saying softly, "Some cousins are coming for a surprise visit, one Briton and three German."

  "What?" Gaius Julius caught the man's eye, voice a bare, sharp whisper. "Our cousins are coming? We don't have a British cousin!"

  Nilos shrugged, trying to push past, but Gaius caught his elbow in a tight grip. "Ay," hissed the Greek, still trying to ignore the Roman. "Leave go! That's all I know—the orders were cut today and are already gone by courier."

  "Where does Pater expect to find an entire Legion in Britain?" Gaius turned the Greek bodily to face him, using the man's head to block sight of his lips. So far, no one in the caupona had paid any attention, even the woman behind the bar bustling off about her own business. "He's already stripped the garrison to the bone."

  "I know!" Nilos' face flushed as he wrenched his arm free. "The province is on its own. He's recalling everyone, even the governor and his clerks."

  Gaius Julius blanched, staring in open horror at the secretary. "What about Germania?"

  "Almost the same," Nilos allowed, shrugging. "There are only five Legions along the entire Rhenus, and three will be here in four weeks, maybe less." The Greek slipped away while the old Roman was grappling with vivid, overwhelming visions of cataclysm.

  Gaius Julius finished his wine abruptly—a poor vintage fouled with silt and bitter, clashing tones—and set the cup down on the counter. He left two coins before climbing up to the street. The sun was just setting and he blessed the architects who had raised such a bulk of marble and concrete atop the Palatine. The street in front of the temple of Claudius was already in shadow, allowing a minute fraction of the day's heat to recede.

  Fool of a fool, Gaius thought, walking quickly north towards the vast marble cliff of the Colosseum. Did he hear nothing the prince said? He'll throw another four Legions—five with Alexandros' Goths—to the Persian butchers for nothing. He turned left in the plaza surrounding the amphitheatre, hearing a muted roar rumbling within. The evening games—nothing special, really, just tyro gladiators trying their skills—were already underway. We'll lose Britain and Germania and Gaul all in one useless, stupid throw of the dice...

  Sunk in depression, he failed to note a young woman standing in one of the vendor's alcoves piercing the outer ring of the Colosseum. She, however, did not fail to notice him and after he had passed by she bundled up a knitted rug covered with charms and trinkets and followed him at a prudent distance.

  —|—

  The dying sun painted the walls of the bedroom with gorgeous streaks of orange and red and purple. Maxian stuffed a spare shirt and some tightly bound papyrus scrolls into his old medikus bag, squinting against the flare of light. He had changed his tunic, cloak and leggings—finally realizing they had acquired a particularly stiff aroma of molten iron, coal dust, marble grit and sweat. The prince supposed he could have made them new again, but the maids in the town house were forever slinking around, looking for things to clean and mend.

  "I want to come with you," Martina said, fighting to keep a whine from her husky voice.

  Maxian shook his head. "I've already told you what I intend. Though your company would be welcome, there's no need for you to spend weeks sleeping beside dusty roads on the way south." His hand searched among a collection of bronze and iron knives, finding an ancient dagger stained with a glossy green patina. As he touched the worn ivory hilt, he could feel a commanding shout ring from the iron and glimpsed a man in old-style Legion armor standing in a line of men under a brassy, bright sky. You will do, he thought, sliding the
blade into a common leather sheath and stowing it in the bag.

  "Fine," the Empress said, crawling onto the bed, silk rustling as she moved. Her feet were bare and her formal stole and veil were discarded carelessly on the floor. She grinned up at him, arching her back and wiggling her taut bottom from side to side. "Shouldn't you keep an eye on me, lest I get into trouble while you're gone?"

  The prince looked at her quizzically, then a slight frown drew his lips down. The setting sun turned cold in his dark eyes. "You would never get into trouble," he said in a flat tone, turning his attention back to the odds and ends he had arranged on the bedspread. Martina flashed him an angry look, then her eyes widened and she stiffened. For a fraction of a grain, she was perfectly still, then she blinked and sighed again.

  "I'll miss you," the Empress said, curling both feet under her. Tapering fingers plucked at the hem of her silken gown, rolling seed pearls and tiny golden pomegranates over her nails.

  "I know," Maxian said, favoring her with a distracted half-smile. "There are some things I need you to do while I am away. Get your notebook."

  Obediently, Martina padded from the bed to fetch a heavy wooden plaquette from her dressing table. The covers were edged with wear-blackened leather and sheets of parchment oozed from the sides. Opening the heavy book, she frowned prettily, searching for an empty page. Finding space to write, Martina drew a fine brush from the thicket of gleaming curls behind her ear. A small copper cup, plugged with wax, was affixed to the spine of the book. Dipping her brush, the Empress looked up, sleek hand poised to write.

  "Nine of the iron drakes in the foundry at Florentia," Maxian began in a brisk, concise voice, "are ready to fly. Winnow the pilots down to eighteen and send them south to meet me in..." He paused to think. "Eleven days. Tell them to find me on Aetna—they shouldn't be able to miss the mountain if they can find Sicilia itself."

  He closed the bag, snapping a clasp worked with the serpent and caduceus of his order. "You remember Cenni—our young artist? He's made some builder's drawings for me, when I could tear him away from casting scales and ever-more-frightening eye shields for our sky serpents." The prince laughed indulgently. "I want you to split the workshops into two projects—divide the artisans by skill, and set half and half to work—one group on the next set of iron drakes, the others on the 'turtles.' Cenni should take charge of the workshops and foundries—he knows my desire."